


sensory overload

by krystallisert



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Haikyuu!!, Mystic Messenger (Video Game), Tokyo Ghoul, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, Begging, Biting, Blindfolds, Blood, Cockwarming, Comfort, Creampie, Crossdressing, Drabble Collection, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Kinktober 2018, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader Is Not Corrin, Rivalry, Sensory Deprivation, Slut Shaming, Smut, Swallowing, Thighs, Vampires, gagging, i can't believe how many pairing tags there are for saeran lmfao, light degradation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-23 07:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16154618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystallisert/pseuds/krystallisert
Summary: a collection of smut drabbles for kinktober 2018





	1. 1: Face-fucking / Deepthroating - Bakugo Katsuki

His hands are calloused, fingertips denting the sides of your face and palms pressed against the lines of your cheekbones. Nails dig into your face so harshly you feel like the grip must pierce your skin, create small crescent moons into the parts of your flesh that’s hidden in your hair. But then, it’s kind of hard to focus on that when Bakugo’s voice is gruff above you, low groans and restrained curses slipping out from between clenched teeth. 

Not to mention his cock in your mouth. 

“You like this, don’t you?” He asks, as if it’s an accusation. As if you’d try to deny it, had you had the opportunity to do so. As it is, the only response you’re able to give is a muffled sound as Bakugo pushes his hips against your face harder, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes water at the rough treatment, mouth hurting and muscles in your jaw twitching. “Just look at you.” 

He smears remnants of eyeliner across your face, thumb not quite matching the harsh tones of his voice. There’s a tremble to his digits that betray him, let’s you know that despite his constant insistence and his cold words, he is affected by the feeling of your mouth around him. He must notice it too, because he picks up his pace, teeth gnashing together and brows furrowing. 

Bakugo likes to think that he’s hard to read, that his tough exterior does a good job at masking his rampant insecurities. It’s easier for him to blame you for the repeated, illicit meeting between you; comments about how you look like you’re begging for it, about how thirsty you are for him. It’s easier for him if those statements remain unanswered, empty accusations meant only to soothe his own wants and needs. That means it doesn’t mean anything. 

Your mouth is wet with saliva, a mixture of spit and pre-cum coating your lips and dripping down your chin; slick, sloppy sounds every time he sheathes himself completely in your mouth. You gag, press your eyes together, attempt to breathe through your nose. Bakugo’s breath comes a little harder, his cock twitching inside you as you try to swallow. 

“Such a slut,” he muses, his body still for a moment as he peers down at you. As most of his insults, this one sounds empty, doesn’t sting nearly as much as they used to do. His hand curls around a fistful of your hair, tugs until it hurts. You think the eye contact might unnerve him, somehow; that he still expects you to cower beneath him or divert your eyes in shame. “You like choking on my dick, don’t you?” 

You press your tongue along the length of his shaft in response, and he groans loudly before he can find the restraint to stop himself. His eyes close, fingers tightening around your hair, and for a second he looks almost unguarded, face red and hot in unbridled pleasure. 

He must take offense to that, because a moment later he’s got your face pressed into his pelvis, cock as far down your throat as your anatomy allows. Your jaw aches, mouth forced wide, and tears drip down your cheeks. He keeps your head still like that, slowly pulls himself almost completely out of you before thrusting back in, a choke making your entire body flinch. He repeats the action, faster, hips snapping and balls slapping as he fucks your face with a ferocity than reminds you of the intensity of his quirk. His eyes are dark, mouth pulled down into a severe frown, the only sign of his own reaction the small beads of sweat that travels down the side of his face and the way his cock twitches everything your throat closes around its head. 

He comes with a deep thrust and a low, rumbling groan, bends over to push your head against him. You feel like you can’t breathe, the smell of sex and the feel of cum hot in your throat. You want him to let you go, to let you spit it out, but he keeps your head locked even when you try to pull away. 

Only when you’ve swallowed, the mix of cum and spit sticky and bitter and his dick soft in your mouth, does Bakugo let go. He stares you down for a moment, fingers lingering with the buckle of his belt as if he’s pondering something. You must look quite the sight; makeup running and all kinds of liquids smeared all over your face. You feel hot, nerves sizzling underneath your skin. You think he knows  _ that _ , too.

But if he does, he decides to be cruel; hand finally moving to fix his clothing and buckle his belt. He looks like he wants to speak — probably there’s some insult about your obvious arrival playing with the devilish tip of his tongue — but he decides against it, leaves instead without a word. 

There seems to be two different tastes of bitter coating the inside of your mouth. 


	2. 2 : Begging - Ray/Saeran

It comes at the heel of an escape attempt. 

For all intents and purposes, you suppose you should be grateful; your surroundings still soft, pink and lavish rather than dark and dim. For all intents and purposes — and this is a sentiment echoed by more than one miffed, faceless believer stationed to guard your door — you deserve some sort of punishment. None comes. Not in the traditional sense, anyhow. 

Ray enters your room looking pale. To be fair, Ray always looks pale, always looks slightly haunted; now there’s something like translucency coloring the accents of his face, a sort of grief tugging at the corners of his mouth. Despite yourself, despite your promise to stay strong in your resolve, you feel your heart sink; guilt squeezing at the the organ and constricting tighter and harder around it with every heartbeat. 

“You promised—” he starts, catches himself. He flinches as if prepared for a beating, caves in on himself a little. His eyes can’t quite seem to meet yours, his gloved fingers grasping at each other with a grip that looks painful. An exhale, then a low, hollow sort of laugh. A sound that feels both soft and sharp all at once. “Ah. There’s no wonder you’d want to leave someone as pathetic as me.” 

Ray resorts so self-resentment so quickly, so easily you thought you’d get used to it, that the words would carry less weight over time. Instead, it feels like a slap to the face, a punch in the gut. Guilt is not a strong enough word. “That’s not what it’s about, Ray.”

“My savior says I shouldn’t see you,” he goes on, as if he doesn’t even hear you. You get up from your sitting position on the plush bed — the bed  _ he’d _ prepared for you — and take a step towards him. He takes a step back. You pretend that that doesn’t sting. “She says I should let you sit here alone. Until you’re willing to cooperate.” 

You suspect that words as soft as that might not have been part of the original conversation, if the twitch of Ray’s brow is something to go by. You’d feel a bit better if only he would’ve detested you a little, if he’d been a bit bitter. But alas, the look on his face when you stop in front of him and his gaze finally meets your own is one you’re more than familiar with by now; a guarded thing, but blatant nonetheless. He looks at you as if you hung all the stars and the moon in the sky, as if you’re the only thing he sees. He looks like he wants you to hurt him. It’s a complicated thing, but then Ray is a complicated man, if nothing else. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to be as lonely as me.” 

You sigh, feeling incredibly heavy. It’s painfully obvious that Ray isn’t here by mistake or by some miracle. This savior of his is nothing if not resourceful, she could’ve easily kept him away if she wanted to. No, Ray is here to show you what the consequences of your disobedience really is; his eyes wet and his lip trembling, shoulders drooping as if the weight of the world lies squarely on him. Ray is here to make it harder to try to leave again. 

And you — like the love struck fool that you have turned out to be — you take the bait. 

You take his face between your hands, try to ignore the jolt that goes through his body at the touch. “I’m sorry, Ray,” you murmur, fingers applying a soft, careful pressure against his skin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Ray exhale, expression stuck somewhere between relief and uncertainty. 

“I don’t care how much you hurt me,” he replies, but he leans into your touch like an affection-starved puppy nonetheless. “You can do whatever you want to me, just please—  _ please _ don’t leave me.” His sentence breaks on a sob, and you feel the snap of heartbreak in your chest. When you exhale, the sound comes out uneven, shaky, and you press your forehead against his, let your fingers wander into the pale, white tufts of his hair.

“I won’t,” you assure him, the lie bitter in your mouth. You make a promise to yourself that the next time you try to escape the clutches of Mint Eye, it will be with Ray by your side. No more flimsy excuses of telling yourself you’re going to come back for him. 

And with that resolve, you look up, nose brushing against his as you shift against him. And then you kiss him.

It’s not the first time you do so, but Ray still reacts as if he’s been electrocuted; twitches under your touch and stiffens as if to play dead. Had it not been for his repeated mentions of wanting more of it after the first time, you might have been worried you were doing something wrong. To his credit, he doesn’t take very long to catch on; arms snaking around your waist and mouth opening to allow your tongue to swipe at his bottom lip. He whines, a high pitched, muted sound against your mouth, presses his body almost desperately against yours.

You pull at him, maneuver him towards the bed, only breaking the kiss when your lungs burn and you need to look behind you so you don’t fall over. Ray follows, bends over you as you let yourself fall back on the bed. Hesitance makes his movements stiff, but you feel the way he presses his pelvis almost absentmindedly against yours, his heart thudding and vibrating at your chest as he puts his weight on top of you. You spread your legs to give him space between them, small eruptions of fire underneath your skin at the way his breath stutters. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, embarrassed. You push your hips up against him, relish when he repeats the sound, nose pressing into your skin. He’s growing undeniably hard at your actions, as easily excitable as he is with everything else. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, lower body rotating at a slow circle against him. His hands clutch the the sheets beneath you, and you struggle to make his grip loosen, guiding his hands to travel down your body. “I’m not gonna leave. I want you.” Your words seem to have the desired effect, his hands digging into your sides as he pushes down, presses his erection to the inside of your thighs with a force that almost surprises you. 

“Do you promise?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin. A hand creeps along your stomach, tugging and pulling at the soft fabric of your shirt. He grinds into you again, and then again; harder when he manages to coax a moan out of you. Your own hands are restless, slipping along the lines of his back, tugging at the hairs at his neck, gripping his shoulders. “Do you promise you won’t leave? That you want me?”

_ Yes _ , you tell him, voice uneven and embarrassingly affected.  _ Yes _ , you promise, despite the small voice in your head that tells you you should stop making flimsy promises. Your head feels too light, too hot, and it takes you a moment too long to realize that Ray’s hand is curling around your neck. Only when he squeezes, airways burdened by the pressure, do you recognize the action, the uncharacteristic strength behind the grip.

He pushes himself up with his free hand, and when he peers down at you, his face is dark. There’s something cold, something unrecognizable and frightening and wild in his eyes. Fingers dig into your neck, blocks your breathing almost completely, just as he grinds his lower body against you once more.

“Good,” he says, with a voice that doesn’t sound entirely his own. “Then I won’t hold back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is barely even anything, but on the upside it's gonna get a part two lol


	3. 3 : Sensory Deprivation - Tsukiyama Shuu

With Tsukiyama Shuu, things are easy. 

Well. In a sense, at least. There’s a comfort in knowing that no matter how dark, how filthy and revolting your mind is, his is exponentially worse. No matter what you ask of him, he’ll generously oblige in exchange for something even stranger. 

Once you’d been with a guy who struggled when it came to curling his hand around your neck during sex. It hadn’t lasted long, after that. Boredom and nights of dissatisfaction creating a rift between you. You met Tsukiyama not long after; he goes the extra mile, ties a rope around your neck and pulls until your vision is nothing but a splatter of dark spots. In return, you let him smear your body with blood during sex, make sure not to ask where it comes from. 

It works, is the important part. An agreement based on mutual satisfaction.

There’s the underlying fear that he might literally eat you up, of course; the subtle and the not so subtle hints at something unstable, something mad beneath his delicate exterior. Somehow that makes it even hotter, this very real chance that one of these days your escapades might lead to your death. 

A shiver runs down your spine as he nips at your exposed skin, bites down hard enough to draw blood. Your breath catches, an automatic urge to protect yourself making you tug at your restrained arms. The cuffs are tight; metal clutching at your wrists and digging into your flesh. A part of you wishes you could see him, darkness enveloping you with a gentle press of soft fabric wrapped around your head. A bigger, more vocal part of you is thankful for it; for not being able to see neither him or your own exposed body. 

He laps at your skin, smears saliva along the curve of your breast. His hand is wandering down (down, down,  _ down _ , too slow, too teasing, too inherently Tsukiyama; you arch up against the touch, only to be forcefully pressed back down into the soft linens underneath you), pausing at the most plump part of your inner thigh. His fingers are cold. 

Tsukiyama loves thighs. He loves to press your legs together and press his cock between them, to tease you until you want to cry and to dig his fingers into the most fleshy parts of your body. In meals, too, the thighs are the best part, he says; usually with his head nestled between them and his tongue dangerously close to your cunt. He knows, by know, how the fear turns you on, how it makes you writhe and groan and fight against his restraints. 

“Oh, my little lamb,” he revels, runs smooth fingers down along your leg. You can’t confidently tell where his voice comes from; the sound echoing and bouncing with the acoustics of his lavish bedroom. “Look at you, all spread out and bare for me.” His hand creeps back up, fingers spreading at your hips. You hear the sound of a belt being unbuckled, an inhale of anticipation accompanying the goosebumps along your arms. 

You feel the bed shift as he situated himself between your spread legs. “Are you ready?”

You’re not completely sure; one never can be with Tsukiyama. But your breath is shallow and your lower body arches, nonetheless. 

“ _ Yes _ .” 


	4. 4 : Cockwarming - Tsukishima Kei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote tsukishima once in my entire life and projected like all hell doing it and it shaped my entire way of seeing him so sorry about that lol

It’s easy to tell when Tsukishima has had a bad day. 

Back when the relationship was new and the tall, lanky man wasn’t so sure of himself or his place in a romantic relationship, his bad days and bad moods meant this; insults meant to sting, stares meant to intimidate, words meant to test you. How far could he push before you decided that enough was enough? How much could he injure until the damage became irreparable?

Boy are you glad that phase is over. It’s still obvious -- bag slammed to the floor carelessly, jacket all but thrown across the hall as he enters the apartment; Tsukishima might think himself a composed and guarded man, but his small fits of explosiveness tend to blow his cover -- when Tsukishima arrives home that evening, that he’s frustrated.

You lift your head to look at him, neck craning from your laid back position on the couch to scope out the severity of his mood. There’s a crinkle between his eyes, a furrow to his brow that’s far too familiar. You push yourself into a sitting position, watch with interest as he goes about his quiet, internal fit for a while before he notices you. He blinks, posture straightening up as he clears his throat, mouth stretched into a severe line. For a moment, he almost looks like a child caught doing something wrong; the sight as endearing now as it was when you first got to know him. 

“Rough day?” you ask by way of greeting, and Tsukishima sighs, reels in the blatant annoyance leaking out of his pores. He makes his way over to the couch, plops down next to you. You can tell he’d like to complain, or snap at you, cheek caving in where he bites the inside of it. Instead, he tugs at your arm, pulls you onto his lap. His fingers skate long your arm, down your sides, skims the surface of your exposed thighs. It’s an easy closeness that took a long time to get to; the first few months of your relationship filled with a restless sort of push-and-pull of not knowing where the line went. Now, Tsukishima initiates intimacy more often than he shies away from it, relies on touches and small, quiet gestures to get across the points his mouth doesn’t quite allow him to make.

His face seeks comfort in the corner where your neck meets your shoulder, a long, drawn out inhale sending shivers and goosebumps down along your spine. His hand creeps beneath your -- or his, rather -- shirt, snakes around your waist to draw you closer. You feel his heart beating against your ribs, your own arms winding around his neck to tangle in his hair. He presses you down, the gesture a hint enough of its own without the blatant hardness of his erection digging into your thigh. You grind against him, repeat the action when it makes him shudder. He reaches between your bodies, knuckles brushing against the soft, dampening fabric of your underwear as he frees himself of his belt, arches to rid himself of both his pants and his boxers. He lets his hand stay there for a moment, teasing almost-accidental touches pressed against the inside of your thigh.

“Tsukishima,” you mutter, fingers playing with the fine hairs at the back of his neck. He hums, seemingly content with the response, gives himself a few strokes before pushing your underwear to the side. You lift yourself up to grant him easier access, bite back a groan as he pushes into you, his hands steady on your hips to guide you slowly back down. It’s a comfortable stretch, a welcome feeling after not seeing him all day. His cock pulsates inside you, Tsukishima’s breath quickening against your skin. You try to shift, try to angle yourself to make it easier to ride him, but he presses down, tightens his grip at your sides. 

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, voice both monotone and soft all at once. He winds his arms around you, sighs contentedly. He draws small patterns into the skin of your back, nose pressing into your shoulder. Your body is throbbing, a restless need to move sending tickles to the pit of your stomach, your insides too hot and needy for friction. But you let it be, for now; instead forcing yourself to focus on the sound of your partner’s even breathing and the way Tsukishima’s entire body seems to relax around you. 

When he kisses the skin at your shoulder, it feels overwhelmingly like an ‘I love you’.


	5. 5 : Hatefucking - Leo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a political au where leo and mc are presidential aides for opposite candidates and i'll never write it but a girl can dream huh

“You’re the most obnoxious, self-important asshole I’ve ever met.”

Your hands are in his hair, tangled into golden curls and tugging at his locks. The shape of his mouth is severe, sharp; you swear you can taste the bitterness on his tongue when he bends down to smash his lips against yours. His hands are hard, determined, move almost despite themselves in a slow, careful line down the sides of your body. 

“Have you ever heard yourself talk?” He returns effortlessly, even as his fingertips slide past the waistband of your jeans. His mouth quirks — but only slightly, only so discreetly you barely catch it — when he reaches the apex of your thighs, fingers pressing against damp lace panties. It’s all you can do not to lean into the touch, to chase after the friction as it leaves you, his hand moving to push down your jeans. 

Leo has always been a roadblock, a taunting figure in the way of your ambitions. Always succeeding where you fail, victory dripping out of his pores as if he doesn’t know anything else. Winning middle school talent shows, becoming class president in high school; if there’s anything you covet you can be sure Leo is there to snatch it from right in front of you. 

‘Nemesis’ might be a tad dramatic of a word, but as you fumble with his belt, hands distracted by the way he bites down on the skin of your shoulder, it certainly feels more appropriate than the mildness of the word ‘rival’. You don’t just want to win over him, you want to destroy him; to unravel and dishevel him completely, to watch him tear apart at the seams and crumble beneath you. 

“Just get it over with,” you mutter, voice cracking at the edges Leo inserts two long, aristocratic fingers into you. Your own palm slips along the trimmed hair of his happy trail, tugging down his boxers with an enthusiasm that would be embarrassing had you registered it yourself. “I have to get back. I have more important things to do.” 

Leo’s brows furrow; something harsh and undoubtedly insulting visibly toying with his mouth. “You’re such a bitch,” he says instead, voice low and dangerous. But he yields, as Leo always does, enters you roughly and without warning. You can only hope that the people downstairs doesn’t hear the strangled moan that rips from the back of your throat as Leo fucks you in the bathroom.


	6. 6 : Creampie - Mirio Togata

Mirio breathes against your neck, fingertips both careful and determined as they slide down the side of your face; pads sweaty and touch twitchy as he thrusts into you in fast, hurried movements. He whispers small words of affection into your skin, seemingly nonsense words and reverent murmurs pressed against your flesh with absent minded kisses and eager bites that make you shiver.

“I’m gonna—” He half-stutters, hands lowering to either grip at your hips or push himself away completely. He doesn’t seem entirely sure which action to take himself, settles for pressing his fingers into your hip bones instead. “I gotta—” His thrusts become shallow, hips stuttering against yours as his voice breaks into a groan.

Now, you’ll be the first to admit that unprotected sex was a dumb idea the first time. It was an even dumber idea the second time, the one after the plan b and the stressful couple of days before you were supposed to get your period. Mirio’s haphazard, less than believable excuses and vows that he could pull out really should not have been enough to sway you, but you never quite knew how to say no to him; especially not when his face is reddened by lust and your back is pressed against the wall of your bedroom. 

In the end, though, it’s worth it for the look on his face when you wrap your legs around him, hands clutching at the fine hairs at the back of his neck and tell him “it’s fine. You don’t have to,” he pushes himself up to stare at you, mouth pink and swollen and eyes dark with something between desire and confusion. “I’m on the pill now,” you explain, feel something akin to embarrassment creep up your neck at how dumb it all seems now that it’s in the open. It’s hardly a favor or a surprise at all, even if you’d felt almost giddy at the prospect at the time. “You can—” the words become syrup in your throat; stuck at the roof of your mouth and somehow vulgar sounding in your head. “If you want.” 

It’s odd how these things become milestones; these silly, thoughtless ideas that you would never tell anyone but that you’d never trade for anything. Mirio looks down at you, pace of his thrusts slowing into something almost painful against the thrum of energy sizzling in your abdomen. 

“I love you,” he says, and he must realize that it’s a slip up; the words something unsaid and danced around in your still budding relationship, because he amends by pressing his lips against yours and picking up the pace. “You’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Feels so good inside you.” 

He comes with a groan against your lips and his forehead pressed against yours, hands pressing you so hard against him you almost think he wants to merge your bodies together. It’s a full, pleasant feeling; strangely exhilarating and oddly comforting all at once. Mirio lets his body fall down next to you, wraps his arms around you, bodily fluids and all; presses a light kiss to your shoulder. 

You turn your head to the side, take in his sated, pleasant expression. “I love you, too,” you murmur, reach out to brush blonde locks away from his face. “Just so you know.”


	7. 7 : Cross-dressing - Saeyoung/707

You come home to frills and lace; long legs and thigh high stockings. It’s been a long day at work, and for a moment it’s almost hard to recognize your boyfriend, both for the bright red of his lip tint and the long, silky wig that you thought he’d thrown out ages ago. There’s this weird, prolonged second that stretches between uncertainty and recognition where you worry that your apartment has been broken into by a fetishist maid with an affinity for MOBAs. 

“Well,” you exhale, hanging your jacket on the coat rack. Saeyoung’s shoulders jerk in surprise, and he twists his head to fully look at you, mischievous grin toying with his glossed lips. You’ll never quite get over the fact that he’s better at makeup than you. “Look at you.” 

Saeyoung gets up from his chair with the speed and determination of someone who’s on a mission, skirt swooping and swirling around his thighs and mouth stretching into something decidedly wicked. “Housemaid Seven, at your service!” He snickers, hands reaching as he basically skips over to you, grabbing you by the waist.

“I missed you today,” he admits, arms hooped around your middle, fingertips playing with the hem of your shirt as he maneuvers you towards the couch. You laugh, the sound muted as he presses quick, chaste kisses to your mouth. He tastes like strawberry. 

“Is that why you’re dressed like a porn star?” 

Saeyoung hums, pushes you down onto the soft pillows of the couch and straddles your lap. “Yes,” he says easily against your cheek, a sticky trail of chapstick down your face as he pecks at your skin. “I’m seducing you.” You slide your hands over his exposed thighs, feel him shuddering at the touch and grind against you. 

“Oh yeah?” You murmur, head tilting as Saeyoung moves down your neck, nipping at your flesh. He groans, presses his pelvis against you when your hands grasps at his ass, nails digging into his cheeks. “I guess I’ll have to--” you don’t get to say anything more, because Saeyoung takes your face between his hands guides you towards him and steals the words right out of your mouth. 

He bites at your bottom lip, licks into your mouth, sucks your tongue into his own. Saeyoung is, more than anyone you’ve ever met, expressive. It’s always easy to tell if he’s upset; his voice clipped and his mouth struggling to form anything but bitter, self-deprecating words, or when he’s happy, smiles wide and octaves higher than his usual tones. Likewise, it’s perfectly blatant and visible when he feels neglected or starved for attention. With every sloppy, open mouthed kiss he pushes against you, grounds his hips and presses his growing erection into your stomach. He’s not a shy man, not afraid of letting out small moans and mewls when you slip your fingers past the waistband of his underwear (or  _ yours _ , rather, as you’re pretty sure he’s wearing a set of the lacy lingerie you’d bought a few months earlier) to press your palm against his cock. 

“I want you,” he whispers, breath labored and face hot as he presses his face against yours. As if to emphasize, his hand grasps at your breast and he bucks against your palm, cock twitching. “So bad.”

“You have me,” you tell him, hand curling around his dick, thumb sticky with pre-cum as you gently press it to his head. He whines, and the sound sends shivers down your spine, sets fire to your skin. “Anytime you want.” 


	8. 8 : Biting - Uta

There’s this dark place where evil creatures lurk. A spectacle of blinding lights and loud music, the smell of alcohol heavy in the air. It feels cramped, somehow; as if the space itself constricts around you, keeps you trapped in its embrace. Monsters hiding in plain sight, necks exposed and puncture wounds blatant on display. 

It’s not a place you envisioned yourself entering voluntarily, certainly not one you imagined you’d find yourself returning to more than once. The name; bold letters decorated in on-the-nose painted drops of blood creating the title ‘the crypt’ above the door to the nightclub had made you scoff on more than one occasion during nights you were looking for trouble.

There are strange things going on there, people told you. Your best friend swearing up and down that she’d seen impossible things of fangs and yellow eyes on the corners of the dance floor. A ridiculous notion, you’d countered. Monsters aren’t real. And yet— 

Uta’s hands are cold, firm against the side of your face as he peers down at you. In his presence, you feel small in a way that is equally as exciting as it is horrible. His fingers slide down, gentle prods and playful presses against irritated, pulsating wounds at the side of your neck. Self-satisfaction makes his eyes dark, the edges of his mouth quirked into something you can’t quite call a smile. Vampires are territorial beings, you’ve learned; they do not like to share. Sometimes you manage to convince yourself that it’s affection that makes him litter your skin in bite marks and tiny wounds. That the pinkish scars on the edge of your shoulder is a statement that speaks of emotion rather than of ego. 

And that’s the beauty of it, the ease with which you manipulate yourself into returning to the admittedly gimmicky and tacky establishment weekend after weekend. The tattooed, handsome creature doesn’t have to say much at all with how willing you are to put your entire existence into his hands. It’s almost worth the judging looks from your friends and family when Uta slips his hands down, down,  _ down _ ; fingertips digging into the fabric of your jeans as he pushes you against the wet concrete of the alleyway outside the club. 

He never kisses you, but you suppose that’s a given. That is to say, he never kisses your  _ mouth _ ; but Uta is never conservative about presses of lips against your shoulder, small licks at the skin of your neck. You feel like you’re on fire, hands clutching at his jacket and torn between wanting to push him away and pull him closer. His fangs graze your skin, and you choke on air. Heat pools in your stomach, nerves sizzling with a latent sort of desire that never seems to be completely sated. He grabs at you harder, pulls you against him and nicks at your skin, slow licks at the small drops of blood oozing out of thrumming puncture wounds. 

“Stop playing with me,” you tell him, fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes. You might’ve sounded a bit more convincing, a bit less desperate if not for the way your voice trembles and your body arches against him. He hums, the sound somehow knowing, somehow mocking as it vibrates against your skin. He opens his mouth, tilts his head into your neck. 

“I’m not.”

And there’s something about the quiet way he says it that makes you ponder for a moment, but then he’s piercing your flesh in earnest; teeth sharp and coated in poison and you forget what you were even thinking about.

  
  



End file.
